2020-10-18 - 1884

Alexander, objectively, is not a very good boyfriend.

He's affectionate enough, but spends half his time wandering around muttering about murders, or Shadows, or whatever case he's working on (and there have been a surprising number of cases, lately - the Revisionist's new rumor has done well by, even if about a third of his clients try to pay in cocaine...or powders which look vaguely LIKE cocaine), or sometimes just disappearing for hours as he walks around the town. Doing...stuff. And things. Anyway, the POINT is that he's not really what you'd call attentive and easy to talk to all the time.

At least he does recognize this, because on this day, he just waits until Isabella's finished her business for the day, then appears at the doorway. He's dressed in the blue button down shirt, neatly pressed black slacks, polished shoes, and a nice dress jacket, also in black. He's styled his hair a little, and trimmed his stubble (which was, let's face it, getting a little unruly). He also has a small bouquet of flowers in one hand, which have been supplemented with dandelions. Which are not in season...but when you're a healer, that's often more of a suggestion than anything. "I'm taking you out to dinner, Isabella. And it's not, we're not going to end up trying to kill each other this time. Promise."

At the very least he has managed to shack up with a young woman who has enough on her plate as an adventuring academic to really be bothered by the lack of attention or attentiveness, so long as there isn't any lack of affection. Dr. Isabella Reede has always been the independent sort, just as likely to wander off in the great unknown in the search for the next great mystery than waiting around at home for her man who is, let's face is, as much of a trouble-magnet as she is. But hey, neither of them have been admitted into the hospital after the Great Weird Balloon Incident; were she asked, she would count it as a win.

She hasn't really been expecting much of anything by way of plans today, so when Alexander ventures into the living room where she's cross-legged on the floor and surrounded by mounds of academic research, she's decidedly not in any shape to go anywhere; a pair of cut-offs that lived its previous life as a pair of jeans, a loose sleeveless jersey, a sports bra underneath with her hair up and her thin glasses on her nose, she looks up startled, a pen dangling from her mouth, one hand holding a book, its pair holding a sheaf of papers. If he had intended to surprise her, mission accomplished, she looks especially astonished. Followed by a muffled: "Mmrwhrg areggrh wf grgoing?" (Where are we going?)

Her expression does soften, but only briefly; it's overtaken by a radiant smile (after a strategic ptooh of the pen spat sideways) that would put the blazing sunset outside to shame. Rising from the ground, she moves over so she can press her lips lightly on his cheek, extending her hands for the flowers and practically cuddling them into her face. "They're lovely," she says. "Give me a few minutes to get dressed?"

Off she goes; it doesn't take long. She emerges with her hair in those tousled dark chocolate waves, spilling over shoulders bared by a spaghetti-strapped black dress that fits snugly on the top and loosens into a billowy skirt an inch or two past the knee, and peep-toe heels. She rarely ever uses cosmetics, just a touch of hydrating screen that leaves her sunkissed complexion luminous, clear lipgloss and a hint of eyeliner that enhances the starlight glitter of the golden flecks of her predominantly green eyes. One of the dandelions he got her has been clipped from the arrangement, tucked behind an ear. Her moonstone pendant and dandelion charm bracelet have been paired with simple white-gold hoop earrings.

"I'm holding you to that promise, by the way," she tells him, angling him an impish look before tossing him the keys to the Jeep with a flick of her wrist and a grin. "I don't know where we're going, so you also get to drive."

Alexander stares down at her like he's trying to memorize her, just like that. "You're beautiful," he tells her, pen and all. He does translate the question, but just shakes his head. She'll find out when they get there, apparently. He hands over the flowers, and leans in behind them, brushing his lips over her forehead. While she goes to get dressed, he makes sure the bird is fed and watered, and that Blue Bell is sufficiently petted to handle the disappearance of her People for a bit.

When Isabella emerges, he turns to give her a quick, playful once over and a long wolf whistle. He clasps one hand over his heart. "May I die before I am forsworn, fair lady." And then offers a rather dramatic bow before snatching the keys out of the air, tucking them into one pocket, and offering her an arm to conduct her to the Jeep. He still doesn't answer the question as to their destination - but honestly, it's not hard to figure out. The car heads directly towards the Bay, and the casino there. As he's pulling into the parking garage, he says, "I thought we might try Sitka. It's supposed to be good?" Only now does he show a bit of nervousness in his sidelong glance. "If that's okay? We can go elsewhere if you'd prefer."

She'd never get tired of hearing it really; Isabella could be fifty pounds heavier and wear a potato sack for the rest of her days, and Alexander would still call her beautiful. Knowing that doesn't really prevent her from feeling the heat creep up from underneath her light tan, though. The wolf whistle earns him a laugh and a playfully light cuff of her fingers against his nearest shoulder before she takes up his arm. "Oh, so even if we've sworn off murder today, dying is still on the table. Good to know." She can't help it - he wouldn't recognize her if she didn't tease him. But her mouth does find the corner of his. "You're adorable," she murmurs, and off they go.

Getting to the casino and Sitka gets an appreciative glance when she unbuckles her seatbelt. "We've been talking about visiting for weeks but never do, so now's a good opportunity as any. Is Itzhak playing tonight?" There's another one of her flashfire grins. "More than okay," she says, brushing her lips lightly over the side of his face - as if she could sweep away the nervousness she finds there. "Come on, let's see how this place is."

"Dying is always on the table," Alexander says, wryly. When they get to the casino, he leans into her touch. "Yeah. I thought it'd be nice. I don't know if Itzhak is playing tonight, though. I probably should have thought of that first," he mutters, a bit sheepishly. Proof that this was no doubt an impulsive decision on his part. He glances towards the mouth of the parking garage, freezing for a moment, before her touch and enthusiasm bring him back around, and he heads towards the elevators to take them to the piano bar.

Apparently, his lack of planning did NOT extend to not getting a reservation, because he gives his name at the door, and the host checks it off, then seats them at a pleasant table for two, not far from the stage. Alexander smiles as he looks around. "Seems to be doing well. I'm glad." His eyes come back to her. "I know we have a lot to catch up on, with how busy things have been. I thought, why not do it over good food and music? Even if they don't play metal." A pause. "I asked. They really don't play metal. Ever."

The stiffened body and the glance at the parking lot is taken in stride. Isabella's hand squeezes on his forearm before guiding him lightly to the elevator - while she doesn't say anything about it, the brief flash of concern is evident. All of that fades away, though, once they're through the doorway of Sitka, surprise flitting over her features when she realizes Alexander set up a reservation. "So you've been waiting a couple of days to spring this on me?" she wonders with a laugh, hugging onto his arm as they're guided towards a table. "I'd like to think this means that even you get sick of takeout now and then." Her more mischievous self is out in full force today - indicative as to how good of a mood his surprise has put her in, like many of the other surprises he's showed her before.

She waits for him to pull out a chair like he always does, and once scooted in, eyes turn to the piano and stage. "You know that it wouldn't surprise me if they started playing piano covers of metal songs?" she wonders. "I mean, Unforgiven would probably sound excellent on a piano. But catching up is good, and making a night out of it is even better by my estimation. Things seem incredibly busy on your end, however. I guess the Revisionist's latest finagling's given you plenty of work? Anything interesting?"

He does, indeed, pull out the chair for her, and his fingertips draw along the back of her neck just lightly before he makes his way to his own seat. "A few days," Alexander agrees, with a smile. "It was mostly just an idea, and I didn't want to say anything about it, in case, um, we got Lost and it was ruined." The kind of logistical considerations you have to do when you live in Gray Harbor, supernatural ambush capital of the world. "But, yeah. Business has picked up. I should write the Revisionist and thank her. She seems nice? And she gave us some interesting answers." He pauses as the waiter comes to take their drink orders and distribute elegant menus. Once that's done, he picks back up, "The work has been okay. Mostly boring things, like who's cheating on who. But...they pay me. On time, even. It's very strange."

He grins, but he's only half joking. The work he usually got was just barely enough to keep his head above water, barring unexpected commissions from certain Addingtons. He glances towards the stage. "Maybe. It would sound nice. I could see a sort of jazzy makeover of some Metallica, too, I guess. They did a cover of Whiskey in the Jar, so it's really only fair that someone does a genre morph of their songs, at some point." He looks back to her, and smiles. "It might be nice. And...and Easton's back. I didn't expect him to be. I thought he was dead. I really did." A pause. "And we keep getting snatched into Dreams about being in high school. I was a teacher," he shudders, "and then we were at Prom. It was awful."

There's a soft murmur from his companion when she picks up the menu to peruse the selections within. "She did give us some interesting answers - like calling the Ors the source. Way ahead of the class, you were," Isabella teases with a wink across the table from him. "Drinks tonight? How about a bottle of wine? Should be less inebriation-inducing than my typical scotch." She's already waving around for a waiter; in spite of the subject matter of their discussions, she's all smiles. "And getting paid for the work you do is good."

Another glance to the stage before she continues. "I'm really glad Easy made it back," she says softly. "I don't know if I could handle losing another brother through the Veil." There's a small frown down on the plate in front of her, before she shakes her head out of the thought. The mention of the high school dreams makes that easier, and she can't help but laugh. "I'm sorry," she says. "I know it's probably terrible, you don't really have too many fond memories about school, if I recall, but if nothing else being a teacher means being in a position of relative power you've never experienced before in those years?" Prom also widens her smile. "If it makes you feel any better, I never made it to my Prom either." He would know why, but at least it doesn't seem to dampen her mood outwardly. "Sometimes I wonder what it would've been like - I would've gone with Byron. Road less traveled, and all of that."

"Wine sounds lovely. I'll, uh, defer to your experience. It has to be greater than mine," Alexander admits, with a little chuckle. And there's a pleased little smile at being called ahead of the class. "I seem to recall you did pretty well on that pop quiz, yourself." Something flickers across his face. "After that, August, Joseph, and others were pulled into another Dream. It was the Ferris Wheel, falling. They saw Gohl killing the woman who would become the Exorcist, and...Thomas and Margaret were probably there. In the Dream, they apparently sabotaged the Wheel, then held it under the water so as many people could drown as they could manage." A huff of air. "And there was a tour at the Addington House, led by a ghost. The sister of the founder of the town. She was going to talk about things, but another ghost interrupted her, and the Exorcist was there." Grump.

Next to that, the reminder of Prom gets just an awkward shrug. "I was a huge asshole as a teenager. Remembering that was almost worse than the trees trying to eat us. I did get to cut the vice principal's throat open with a straight edge. So that was interesting." It's deadpan, and so is the follow up, "Don't worry, Byron brought a valley girl type. Pretty sure teenage Lilith was gonna shank her right there on the community center floor."

The Ferris Wheel Dream cultivates a spark of interest, Isabella's gaze sharpening from across the table. "Blast from the past, I remember asking you about that picture the summer I returned to Gray Harbor," she murmurs. Though she delays the rest of what she's going to say when the server arrives. She selects a bottle of red from the list and he scurries off to get it, before linking her fingers on the table in thought. Anything related to her mother's family has always interested in her. "Dolores Cunningham," she recalls. "So that's how she got her throat cut." She furrows her brows faintly. "Why the Ferris Wheel, though? If their enmity was just against the Baxters, why bring other innocents into it? Unless the entire Ferris Wheel was filled with them? Wouldn't it be easier to find out where they live and torch the building? Why the production?" Her finger traces into the tablecloth. "And...the sister of the founder of the town? You mean the Addington founder, or the Baxter who bought the land first? And which ghost interrupted her? Why was the Exorcist there?"

She rattles off a gazillion questions at once, but that's just her way - always, whenever the town's bloody history was concerned.

Mention of the vice principal's murder gets a wince, though when they move onto the other details of Prom, there's a faint smile. "It took them a while to get there, but I'm glad they're tying the knot. It's meant to be, with the two of them."

"Seems like it," Alexander murmurs. "Although it was a Dream. So maybe not entirely accurate. But I think it's sort of like the fire vision that the Mary statue showed us - Violet and me - way back when. That did happen. As if the Veil...cares about some of these things. Wants them to be seen. And there were Baxter children on the wheel at the time." He shrugs, "maybe that was just the most efficient way to dispose of them. But," he hesitates, "if it was truly accurate, then Thomas had been letting Gohl out before this last time. Using him, I guess, as the Addington's personal assassin." His face twists. "I wish we had let them take him to the Asylum and torture him, now."

He stops, clears his throat. "I'm sorry. That's not nice to say. But...the ghost wasn't an Addington or a Baxter. Samuel Benn is the name she used for her brother. She said..." he stops. His eyes widen. "And then she said that in a different 1884, the Addingtons bought up the land from the Baxters!"

She nods. "That's the reason why I'm more inclined to believe the Dream that the others stepped on." Isabella's lips press into a tightened line when she thinks of Gohl being released as the Addingtons' personal assassin. Her fingers tighten over the nearest utensil, but that's understandable, isn't it? Her mother had been killed that summer. "We wouldn't have known what killing him would've done to him, for all we know, it could've just released his ghost. Still, that's disturbing, though if they had lied, that wouldn't surprise me at all."

She shakes her head at his apology. "If the Dream was accurate, they killed children, Alexander. From where I'm standing, you can be as censuring as you want." There's a bit of a blink at the last, though. "What do you mean a different 1884? In our history, it was the Addingtons that bought up the land from the Baxters - that 1884 is what we know. Unless..." She pauses, and then she groans. "Wait, do you think the Revisionist had something to do with that also? Now that we know she exists, she might also be an explanation why the hospital was the Baxter Memorial Hospital in 1964 and not the Addington Memorial Hospital that we know now."

"I don't...I don't know what it means," Alexander says, not exactly, but from his wide eyes his mind is racing. "I was wondering why the Exorcist was so dismissive of her. Calling her not real, when she was just a ghost, and the Exorcist usually likes ghosts...I mean. As much as she likes anything." He shakes his head. "But what if it's not just a revision. I mean. The revisions don't make other 2020s, they just change the way we remember this one. What if it's...it's..." his words flail for a moment, trying to put a name to what he's thinking of, "a parallel reality, of some sort? Like. There's a world where Gray Harbor was founded by this Benn guy, and it wasn't named Gray Harbor, it was named after a cannery or something. And then there's a world where the Baxters were here, and the Addingtons bought up all their land. She said it all got mixed up in 1884, so...what if something happened that either brought those worlds together, or tore one world into two?"

Parallel worlds? Isabella furrows her brows, falling quiet when the waiter returns with their bottle of red, which he pours on their waiting glasses. "Are you ready to order?" she wonders, because despite the interesting discussion, she's not about to forget the fact that they're having a nice dinner out, and she intends to eat. She orders an appetizer to share (something with bacon), her entree and instead of a dessert course asks for a cheese plate. She'll wait for Alexander to make his selections, and for the other man to leave, before she plucks up her wine to take a quiet sip of it.

"I don't know how far records are going to go if we're talking about 1884," she muses. "But since we're looking for a lineage, if we can't find anything here, we might want to ask the Archivist. What I would do first, though, is see if there is a Benn family in the history of Gray Harbor. Whatever we might find there might spur ideas as to where else we could go digging. You know me, I'm always going to go to the earliest point that we know of - if that's when all the confusion started, we ought to poke there."

A different 1884. Teeth worry faintly on her lower lip.

"Sure," Alexander says in regards to ordering. He grins brightly at her, chuckling at the bacony appetizer. He orders his own entree, after staring at the menu for a moment or two, and then a dessert. He has more of a sweet tooth than she does, so it's something chocolatey. Once the server is gone, he nods. "Sounds good to me. It's not a name that I'm familiar with, and it didn't come up when we were looking into the founding before. You know, when we were first introduced to the Archivist. I don't know that Samuel Benn existed here. I think that's why the Exorcist called his sister out as not being real, being a not-thing. She doesn't really talk about ghosts like that, not exactly." He shrugs. "But something, it seems, did happen in 1884."

Suntanned fingers drum absently on the table in thought. "Can't hurt to look," Isabella murmurs with a hint of a smile. "You know how I get when it comes to delving in the past, you could say I've made a career of it." She winks at him from across the table. "As for the Benns family, I suppose we'll see. If they have a parallel here, no harm looking there either - at this point I'm not ruling anything out until we actually can. But the mention of 1884 when everything got 'mixed up' is what's really making me curious. I wonder if this town's records go that far...and if not, we have alternative avenues with which to pursue that inquiry."

"I'd guess that if there are still records, they're locked up somewhere in Addington House." Alexander smiles. "Which, as you know, can be difficult. But Byron's ancestor is demanding her wedding gown back, so maybe that could be an in? If he's interested in letting us go with to deliver it, we might be able to find out...I don't know, something. Or we could just sneak in one night. The house is dangerous, but...well." He shrugs. "Who knows. Might be fun." His smile widens to a grin, momentarily.

There's a quiet laugh. "Let's face it, you've been looking for an excuse to break into Addington House for some time now," Isabella teases him. "I'm for it, what's the worst that could happen?" She winks at him there, before she falls silent as the waiter arrives with their first courses. She picks up her fork, clearly eager to dig in. "And when has the prospect of something being dangerous ever stopped us anyway?"

She pauses and lifts her brows upwards. "There's also the church," she tells him. "Father Daniel indicated that there are records there - all Addingtons pass through the parish, he said. If not at birth, then certainly in death. If breaking and entering isn't completely off the table, there's that also. Granted, considering its proximity with the cemetery and considering what we experienced there, it might be even more dangerous than the Addington House, though the latter does interest me in other ways." After a moment, she continues, "Thomas and Margaret Addington were looking for 'The House' in the memories I told you about a while back. I wonder what we would find if we opened a door there."

Alexander snorts. "I'm not a criminal. I don't break into places," he mutters. "Not regularly. I don't know how to pick locks. Victoria did offer to teach me, however." There is a smile, offered to Isabella, when she points out that they tend to plunge headlong into danger. He takes up his fork, and - completely foregoing his earlier statement about NOT being a criminal - blatantly steals a bit of food off her plate. "The church would probably be easier. I can't imagine they have much security, and you can probably just have someone distract the priest and then wander on in to their records room," he muses. "I don't think the cemetery itself is dangerous, as long as we don't go over while thinking about Gohl, or things like that. I'm not sure if the cemetery even exists over there. The Exorcist was suggesting that dying on the other side of the Veil means you might get made into an -ist. I don't know what happens with native Veil creatures. Or if there even are any native Veil creatures. I'm not entirely convinced that any of it...exists, when we're not there to experience it."

To the thought of opening a door in Addington House, he has only one - firm - response: "Don't."

There's a playfully chastising look when Isabella's food is stolen off her plate. "You know, in the Great State of Reede, that's practically felonious," she teases before there's a quick nod of his assessments there. "I agree but at least with me around, you needn't worry about not being able to pick locks, though that's definitely a necessary component in the private investigator's kit. Addington House is trickier, and I'm not quite certain how Cambridge would react if we just poked and prodded at the 0place after hours. I did tell you what I sensed there, didn't I? That there are areas in the basement that don't just feel wrong, but especially dangerous? Still, I can't help but be curious."

His words about opening a door at Addington House has her pouting a little. "You never let me do anything fun," she grouses, but with the quick grin she flashes him, she would realize she's really only joking.

....well, half-joking, though one wonders whether it's just the archaeologist once again being cavalier with her own safety for the sake of knowledge or inspired by the Vivisectionist's Curse (Cancer?). Considering it doesn't appear that her approach towards such explorations hasn't exactly changed much, this is definitely one of those situations where it's difficult to tell.

Alexander's eyebrows rise. "Is it? Hm. I guess I'll have to turn myself in. You can think of a suitable punishment." He flashes an unrepentant smile, then sneaks his fork out for another brazen theft. "And...I could try contacting Patrick again," a slight emphasis on the man's name, "but...he hasn't returned any text I've sent in a while. Not since Anne...well, decided to stop, really. I like to think that they're plotting an escape from this town, and Patrick just needs to lull Margaret into enough complacency so that he can sneak around her." Then he sighs. "But I don't actually know if he would sneak around her, even if he had the opportunity. But, yeah. Before he stopped responding, he said that there were places in the basement that would eat us. I don't think he was being metaphorical."

He can't help but laugh at her pout, although he DOES try to remain stern. "There's fun. Then there's 'particularly messy suicide', and I like you too much for that." He gives her (half)fake stern look. "I know you're too smart to do something like that, though. Anything with the Addingtons, we have to treat with kid gloves. I wish we'd never gotten involved at all. I should have listened to Byron and just let Thomas be hauled off. I can't...help but think that a lot of the ways things have gotten worse are my fault. For always poking."

The archaeologist laughs, though there is nothing derisive about the sound - it's warm and low, and it ends with her leaning back on her seat with her eyebrows lifted and the devil's own mischief tugging on the corners of her mouth. "I suppose I can think of on-- hey!" Her fork comes up this time, adopting a parry against his, the tinny metallic ring of it spilling over the table. His remarks about Patrick Addington is a surprising one, however. Lips purse faintly. "Well, it might be better for him and Anne if they did," she says slowly, though conflict wars openly on her sunkissed expression - she would never begrudge Anne for leaving, but that does mean having to watch a friend move far away, albeit to better pastures and away from all the craziness here.

"Anyway, I don't know how much pull Margaret Addington has left, if any. From what Hyacinth's told me, she's withdrawn from the public eye after Thomas' death, but I suppose if there is one thing that this conversation has reminded us, it's the fact that she lies." Isabella takes a sip of her red wine, her eyes narrowed faintly at the thought of it.

To his last, she shakes her head. "Well, I'm the last person to have the foundations to cast stones in your direction regarding poking. If anything, I might be worse." Especially these days - it's already left her cursed by the Veil entity she killed in defense of herself and her friend, and languishing in the Dark Men's prison, on top of everything else. "And I highly doubt that no matter what degree of non-involvement we could've had, people still would have died, my mother still would've been murdered." There's a frown at her plate, stormclouds darkening her expression visibly. "If I hadn't gotten involved, I wouldn't have known what actually happened. I would've had to rely on the police to tell me some version of the truth that may not've been the truth at all. That isn't to say that that entire affair ended in a personally satisfactory manner, but it would have been worse, if I didn't know what the hell."

"It would be," Alexander says, simply. "Better for them. I don't know if they really would, though. Does anyone ever really leave?" He shakes his head. "And it's not what Margaret does in public that worries me. For all we know, she's in there building some sort of doomsday weapon against anyone with Baxter ancestry," he mutters, which just goes to show that he still reads too much conspiracy media. He pauses for a moment to enjoy the food - his own plate, this time, and a sip of the wine, as well.

He sucks in a breath at the mention of Isabella's mother, wincing and looking down at his plate. "I didn't mean to imply...I just, hm. I thought we were doing the right thing, to try and keep Thomas from being sent over there. Over there was, I thought, horrible. And he was, I thought again, a man who had spent as much of his life as he could restraining the killer within him. A killer I felt, partially, responsible for. And I know that's irrational, but it's how I felt. But if he was deliberately letting Gohl out to murder enemies of the family? Then if we'd just sent him off, then no one would have had to sacrifice the things they did. Itzhak would have his violin, you would--" he breathes out. "And our abilities wouldn't have weakened. I tried to do the good thing. But it was bad."

Does anyone ever really leave?

Isabella lifts her slender shoulders up in a shrug. "I did, I stayed away for over ten years," she supplies. "Yule for much longer - around twenty, but coming back always seems to be in the cards. You may be right about Marge, though." She takes a sip of her wine, and finishes her entree course before setting the empty plate aside. How she manages to demolish her food in the blink of an eye without actually looking like she is could be one of their lives' greatest mysteries, but it's happened again.

"We could only operate with what we knew at the time, Alexander," she tells him simply. "They could have elected to be more helpful, and give us the information we need, but they didn't. Too entrenched into thinking that they've protected and saved this town for decades and they clearly still think they do. But the fact of the matter is despite growing old and executing the many, many, many mistakes they've had over the years and a clear disregard to answer for them, there's a reluctance to relinquish control that ultimately cost her Thomas. She has to live with that, not us."

There's a wry and somewhat bitter twist to her mouth. "But I'm not discounting the idea that I hold her in callous regard because of my own losses."

"It's not really leaving if you don't stay away," Alexander points out, dryly. "Even I left, for a while. Didn't work out, but I did do it." He eats more mechanically, as if he barely tastes the food, each bite neat and precise between bouts of talking. The food doesn't really deserve his lack of care, but he only really shows enthusiasm about food when the person who cooked it is right there. There's a slow, reluctant nod. "I suppose," he murmurs, about the Thomas situation. "But I can't help but feel that...we, I, should have known better." He shrugs. "I don't know why. I just do. But," a huff, "what's done is done, right? It's not important, now. None of us can turn back the clock and try again. So, we'll move on."

Isabella grins. "Sure it is, staying away isn't a prerequisite to the verb," she quips. "But I know what you mean, I'm just giving you a hard time." Her fingers absently play with her wine glass. "I suppose there's always going to be the urge to do more upon further reflection, but as you said, there's not much we can do about it now but move on."

"Careful, or I'll steal more of your..." he glances down at her empty plate, and Alexander laughs, "nothing. There's nothing left to steal. How do you do it?" He grins at her. "But, I know I've been the downer on this evening, but I'm going to try and stop. Let's enjoy the dinner, and the music," a glance towards the person playing the piano, "and each other. It's a lovely night to be out, and I love you."

The archaeologist smirks at him; there's something smug about the expression, but she manages to make it look endearing with the tilt of her chin at him. "Well, there's my cheese plate coming, but you know how I feel about cheese, so if you do attempt a theft, just so you know, you're definitely taking your life in your own hands there." Isabella brandishes her fork threateningly at him.

Her fork settles back on the plate, before she extends her hand to thread her fingers into his in the middle of the table. She turns it over, if he allows, to lean forward and press a kiss on his knuckles.

"We haven't done this in a while," she tells him with a smile. "Thank you for taking me out, downer or no. And I love you."